


Oncoming Inevitability (something like a fist)

by skytramp



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Bruises, Fighting/Boxing, Frottage, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4902091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skytramp/pseuds/skytramp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>He likes to think he provides a service, him and the rest of the old high school crew from Kirisaki Dai Ichi give the community something they need: a way to let out their aggression in sanctioned, organized, and <i>monetized</i> fights.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	Oncoming Inevitability (something like a fist)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sumaru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumaru/gifts).



> happy birthday Lin!! I couldn't wait, obviously, so even though ur bday isn't for more than a week here's your gift!!

The room is always dark, Hanamiya prefers it that way, easier to hide the stains that they can’t seem to scrub out, easier to shut his eyes to the under the table dealings that happen between fights. Of course, none of this is strictly legal to begin with. The building is rented, rather than owned, but the paper trail ends there. Hanamiya has learned in his years since high school that sometimes it's better to simply be the mind behind the ideas, getting credit wasn’t always worth the risk. 

He likes to think he provides a service, him and the rest of the old high school crew from Kirisaki Dai Ichi give the community something they need: a way to let out their aggression in sanctioned, organized, and _monetized_ fights. They also serve alcohol, (no food, despite Hara’s insistence, because he’s a terrible cook) and he’s spotted more than one person going home with a hired help, so to speak. 

It’s their main event, or something of the sort, and their reigning champion is wasting no time grinding her bare fists into every vital point on her opponent’s body. It’s almost sick to watch the precision of Riko’s strikes, the way her eyes flick over exposed muscle, seeking weaknesses and exploiting them. Rumor says she used to be a boxer, a real one, with an organization behind her, Hanamiya knows she’s just a coach with a bad temper. Most people don’t know that the real story happens in the subtle glances she sends to her corner, the way her partner’s eyes flick towards the opponent as she pushes her long hair over her shoulder, the unspoken communication and a level of trust that only comes from fucking someone’s brains out on a regular basis. 

It takes Riko less than five minutes to win the fight, and she bows, all formal and respectful before jumping out of the ring and picking up Momoi, spinning her around in a celebratory hug. Hanamiya claps, as is expected, and leans his back against the bar. The crowd is milling about now, impatient and looking to collect on any bets. Gods help the man who put his yen against Riko, but Hanamiya knows they are out there, the type of men who didn’t think a woman could win, despite overwhelming evidence, he can spot them by the sour looks on their faces, the way they slink out of the room empty handed. 

Riko catches his eye across the crowd and gives him a nod, Hanamiya returns it. It’s an easy alliance, built not on respect but the mutually beneficial terms of a 60:40 profit share. Momoi breaks their eye contact with a finger against Riko’s neck and Hanamiya looks away with a smile, or something like one. 

He can feel the crowd getting restless, hear the unknown buzz of whether or not another fight will occur or if they should go home for the evening. Normally Hanamiya has to do no more than open the doors and set the booze flowing, the fights start themselves, the bookies arrange the odds, the spectators watch with baited breath. Sometimes it was hard to find someone to fight after Riko, she rarely fought more than one in a row, and her fighting was impressive to the point of intimidating. 

The bell rung, more to get the crowd’s attention than anything else: it meant they had a challenger. Only one, Hanamiya could tell, and he could see the shoulders of the man standing near the ring, wide, he seems strong in the basest sense, but strong ones went down all the time. Hanamiya glances over his shoulder. 

“Furu, fancy a fight?” Furuhashi’s eyes don’t widen, but there’s an almost imperceptible lilt to one side of his mouth, it looks like an agreement. “Get in there, then, kick his ass.” Furuhashi nods and Hanamiya smiles as he walks around the bar, leaving his apron on the counter. 

Hanamiya catches his arm on the way past, fingers digging into the skin just below his t-shirt sleeve. “Oh, and don’t make it too bloody or you’ll be scrubbing the ring, I don’t need to hear Yamazaki bitching about bloodstains half the night.” Furuhashi nods again and Hanamiya lets go of his arm. He knew the request was unlikely to be fulfilled, whenever one of his own got in the ring, things got messy, but he appreciates the sentiment. He was sure Furuhashi didn’t like listening to Yamazaki bitch any more than he did. 

He keeps his eyes on Furuhashi, watching him cross the room towards the ring. The crowd doesn’t part for him, rather he pushes his way through. He never has had much of a presence, Hanamiya thinks, and it's a shame, really, he could have been something if he had just a little more ambition. 

The man with the broad shoulders, the challenger, turns his head to where Furuhashi approaches him, he’s taller than Furuhashi, but his profile is just shadowy enough that Hanamiya can’t see his face. Another man steps forward, shorter and slimmer than the two around him, and Hanamiya can guess their intent by the way the broad shouldered man rests both hands on his shoulders. _This_ was their intended fighter? That wouldn’t work at all, Furuhashi would make such a mess that even Seto would be grumbling from behind the bar, if about nothing else but the smell. 

Hanamiya is going to stop this. He would have yelled across the room, stopping them before they crawled through the elastic ropes into the ring, but over the hubbub of voices that would have been impossible. Instead he walks quickly. It’s nice, he thinks, how the crowd _does_ part for him, it's a certain level of respect he’s learned to enjoy, just a little bit of acknowledgement for his hard work. 

“No way!” He calls, as soon as he’s judged he’s within earshot. Furuhashi turns first, used to his voice, he thinks, and steps away from the ring before he can even really enter it. The other man looks confused. He’s even smaller than Hanamiya had judged from the bar, his light hair already plastered to his forehead with sweat, but there’s a coldness to his eyes, a deadness that rivals Furuhashi’s like he never thought he’d see. Maybe he had potential, if only for ruthlessness, but Hanamiya wouldn’t take a chance on someone with such spindly arms. 

“I thought _this guy_ volunteered.” Hanamiya said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the other man. “That’s why I sent over Furu. This doesn’t look like a fair fight, I don’t want you in my ring.”

“Since when do you care about a fair fight?” The voice is deep, pleasantly so, with a sound twisted by a smile. Hanamiya’s heart clenches because as much as he hates to admit it, he’d never forget that sound. He turns quickly, attempting to school his expression, to look distant and cold, before making eye contact with the man behind him. 

“Kiyoshi.” He greets. It’s without inflection, but he pastes a smile to his face, as fake as the rolex on his wrist. 

“Kuroko can fight, you know, you should give him a chance.” 

Hanamiya watches as Kiyoshi’s eyes flick from his face up to the ring. He watches the muscles in Kiyoshi’s neck, how they twist slightly when he turns his head. 

“Sure.” He concedes, his smile widening. “On one condition.” 

Kiyoshi doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised, somehow he’d always known Hanamiya’s next move. It was infuriating. He doesn’t respond, though, so Hanamiya continues. He turns back to the ring to gesture towards the other man, who must be Kuroko. 

“This guy can fight,” He says, before lowering his voice, “I’ll find him someone closer to his weight class.” He spins to face Kiyoshi, smile wide on his face. “But only if you fight me, Iron Heart.” 

The old nickname has it’s intended effect, and he can see Kiyoshi’s jaw clench. “I didn’t come here to fight--” 

“Then neither can your boytoy here.” He interrupts, and it’s nice to see the flash of irritation in Kiyoshi’s eyes at the implication.

“Okay, then we’ll leave.” Kiyoshi lifts a hand in gesture towards the ring. “Come on, Kuroko.” 

Hanamiya can hear the creaky stretch of the ropes as Kuroko climbs out behind him. Kiyoshi’s doesn’t look at him, instead choosing to keep his eyes on Kuroko. Hanamiya clenches his fists at his side, willing himself to look nonchalant in the face of this rejection. 

Kiyoshi is turning away, heading for the door with his hand covering half of Kuroko’s right shoulder. 

“Two to one odds!” Hanamiya calls. He knows it sounds desperate, hell, he _is_ desperate. 

Miraculously, Kiyoshi turns his head. “Two to one? What, that you’ll win?” 

“That _you_ will. Look at us, the crowd will never buy it if it goes the other way.” Hanamiya knows he’s got him now, he only has to reel him in. “One round, no holds barred.” He smiles in a way that he knows makes most people want to hit him, he hopes it’ll do the trick on Kiyoshi. 

“And then Kuroko can fight?” 

“Then Kuroko can suck your dick in the ring for all I care.” Kiyoshi looks offended, Kuroko looks nonchalant. “Yes,” he continues, “then he can fight. I’ll put him in the ring with Hara, he needs something to keep him occupied anyway”

Hook, line, and sinker. “Okay. Only one round.” 

Hanamiya holds up both hands in mock innocence. “I swear, I swear, only one round. You have my word.” 

 

It takes them less than ten minutes when it's all said and done. Hanamiya’s fists are wrapped and he changed into a pair of shorts, a dark green like his old school, a color he’s always been fond of. He can hear the mumbling whispers of the crowd. Hanamiya has a reputation for violence, fueled by displays as much as by the careful planting of rumors, but no one has ever seen him fight in the ring. His skin is sallow, looking more yellow than white under the harsh ring lights and he knows a good percentage of those whispers are doubting his prowess when presented with Kiyoshi. 

He doesn’t blame them. Kiyoshi is huge, his presence filling the ring even more than his body does. His skin is tanned, Hanamiya can see tan lines running along the tops of his shoulders where a tank top might sit, and he’s got a soft brace around one knee, hardly more than medical tape, but enough to draw the eye to an obvious weakness. 

Hanamiya would be scared if they hadn’t fought before. The arena was different, sure, but his strategies were sound. 

He can hear the sharp tap of a palm against a microphone, getting the crowd’s attention. Hanamiya can hardly see Yamazaki, and that’s only because he knows where to look. 

“We’ve got a treat for you folks tonight.” He starts, his voice loud and booming, enthusiasm oozing from the tone like any announcer. “Our very own proprietor, Hanamiya Makoto is in the ring to face off with none other than the Iron Heart of Tokyo, Kiyoshi Teppei!” 

Kiyoshi flinches again, the nickname hitting him like the first punch, and Hanamiya inclines his head in acknowledgement. 

Yamazaki continues, “Get your last minute bets in now, folks, two to one on the Iron Heart, let’s get this started!” 

The bell sounds again and the crowd goes quiet. They have thirty seconds until the fight officially starts, but there’s no referee to signal it. Hanamiya never has much use for referees, or rules, for that matter, unless they are his own.

Kiyoshi looks serious, that perpetual goofy smile nowhere to be seen, and he holds his hands in front of him in loose fists. They’re both barefoot, circling the ring now in wary steps, measuring each other’s reaction to the movement. 

The bell rings and Kiyoshi moves, no hesitation as he steps in to kick just above Hanamiya’s knee. Hanamiya steps back, avoiding the kick easily and righting himself. 

“Eager, are we?” He taunts stepping just out of Kiyoshi’s large range. Kiyoshi narrows his eyes, but otherwise doesn’t react. It’s almost disappointing, really, Hanamiya would have liked to play with him. Trash talk was always easier on a basketball court. 

He knew he’d have to step in close if he wanted to land a blow with more than his wit, but that meant getting within Kiyoshi’s range, there was no way around it, physically he was outmatched. 

He ducks in close, dodging the instinctive blow that Kiyoshi aims for his jaw and slams his fist just below Kiyoshi’s sternum. It hurt. It was a good hurt, the type of hurt that meant he was _doing_ something, but Kiyoshi’s lack of reaction was disappointing. Hanamiya retreats, taking a kick to his shin in retaliation. He would just have to try harder, wear him down. 

They trade punches, Hanamiya dodging more than he takes. His own punches land with resounding smacks against Kiyoshi’s skin but his reaction is lackluster at best. The third hit to the same rib makes him wince, he was breathing only slightly heavier and Hanamiya is frustrated. His own wrists hurt, sore from punches he isn’t used to throwing, and the skin on the tops of his feet is red and chapped. He isn’t tired, not yet, and adrenaline keeps his eyes sharp. 

Kiyoshi seems to be on the defensive since his first failed attack. He sits back and waits for Hanamiya to come at him. Strictly speaking the round should be ten minutes long, the single round they’d agreed on, but they had no judges, no one watching points for connecting punches, no one tallying the score. No, this match would end when one of them hit the floor, that was the way it always went, and if Kiyoshi walked out after ten minutes Hanamiya wouldn’t hesitate to hit him when his back was turned. 

Hanamiya steps back, loosening his shoulders as they circle the ring again. “Tired yet, Iron Heart? Ready to give up?” 

“No.” Kiyoshi says through clenched teeth. It feels like a little victory. 

Hanamiya steps in, this time not dodging the first punch, a feint anyway, but dodging the second blow, a near vertical kick aiming for his chest. He twists, spinning his body to deflect the momentum. His own fist hits Kiyoshi under the jaw, an uppercut with the whole weight of his body behind it and Kiyoshi’s head jerks back. There’s a moment of victory, as the blood sprays from Kiyoshi’s mouth and he staggers back. Hanamiya loses his own balance, pressing a flat hand against Kiyoshi’s chest to right himself. 

But Kiyoshi doesn’t fall. Hanamiya bounces back out of his range and watches as Kiyoshi shakes his head to clear his vision and spits blood and saliva on the floor. There’s no visible wound on his face, Hanamiya had hit under his chin, but he must’ve bit his tongue and Hanamiya can see the way the blood coats his teeth. 

The next few blows feel more vicious. Hanamiya is almost snarling, breathing heavy through his mouth as Kiyoshi’s fist catches him in the shoulder, then in the hip bone in quick succession. Hanamiya kicks, slamming his heel into Kiyoshi’s wrapped knee and Kiyoshi groans loud enough for the crowd to react. He follows up with thrusting the butt of his hand into Kiyoshi’s nose and the way the blood flows fast and thick over his lips and down his chin gives Hanamiya the idea that he broke it. 

He sort of wants to smile, wants to let out some witty retort but it’s too hard to stay focused on everything at once. He’s legitimately tired now, the end of round bell sounded more than five minutes ago, but they ignored it and kept fighting. He is glad, at least, that Kiyoshi is taking this as seriously as he is, and watches as Kiyoshi wipes his dripping nose with his forearm, smearing the blood in dark orange streaks. 

Hanamiya takes a deep breath, not caring that he’s signaling his move, and steps into range. There aren’t any attacks this time, Kiyoshi seems content to wait for Hanamiya to move. His first punch is a feint, a jab to the jaw that he quickly redirects to the same rib he’d been working on previously. Kiyoshi almost doubles over and Hanamiya is so stunned by the reaction that he doesn’t see the fist until it’s too late. 

He’s always admired Kiyoshi’s hands. They are large, strong, with long nimble fingers like a musician. His hands make it look like he can carry him wherever he wants to go, though Hanamiya’s first choice was the bedroom. He hadn’t thought they were too intimidating, just appealing, until the Kiyoshi’s fist was barrelling towards his jaw and the world went dark. 

 

 

He woke up on the couch in his office, sore and bone-tired in a way very few things left him. He could feel bruises forming from every one of Kiyoshi’s blows, and not even the bag of ice, gingerly held to his jaw by Furuhashi, was enough to distract him from the pain. 

“I lost?” He asks, barely moving his jaw. 

Furuhashi nods. 

“We made a good cut, though, right? That bastard isn’t getting a percentage of anything.” 

Furuhashi nods again, keeping the ice firmly in place. “Hara’s fighting now.” He says, and Hanamiya’s eyes widen. He forgot that he agreed to let Kiyoshi’s kid fight. He hopes Hara kicks his ass, just for the satisfaction. 

A knock on his office door makes him jump, and Furuhashi looks surprised too before the door creaks open and Kiyoshi sticks his head in. 

“Get out.” Hanamiya says, and Kiyoshi’s eyes widen before he realizes that Hanamiya meant Furuhashi, not him. 

“Are you--?” 

“Are you going to make it a habit of questioning me, Furu? Just get out.” 

Furuhashi nods, a little hesitant, and sets the icepack down on the table before squeezing past Kiyoshi in the doorway. Kiyoshi takes one step inside, pushing the door shut behind him and leaning against it. 

“How are you feeling?” Kiyoshi asks. He’s wearing his clothes again, the same jeans and dark pink t-shirt stretching over his shoulders. He’s cleaned up some as well, there’s no longer blood on his face or his arm but his nose is still swollen and he breathes through his mouth, there’s a bandaged cut on his eyebrow that Hanamiya didn’t remember giving him. 

“About as good as I look.” Hanamiya looks up at the ceiling, pulling his eyes away from Kiyoshi’s chest. He’s grateful he hadn’t been looking at his face, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to look away. 

“So pretty good then.” Kiyoshi says, and Hanamiya can hear his smile again. He props himself up on one elbow, wincing at the pain that radiates through his shoulder and the pounding in his head at the brief change in elevation. 

“Are you flirting with me right now?” He asks, and Kiyoshi shrugs. 

“Were you flirting with me earlier?” He counters. 

“When?” 

“In the ring.” 

Hanamiya laughs, a quick bark that leaves his throat briefly sore with the force of it. “I’m pretty sure that’s called fighting.” 

“Are you sure? Didn’t really feel like fighting to me.” Kiyoshi laughs and takes a step further into the room, closing the gap between himself and the couch to less than two meters. Hanamiya lets his head fall back, a bit too dramatically and winces at the pain from the sudden drop. 

“You’re an asshole.” He says to the air above him and Kiyoshi laughs again. 

Kiyoshi’s steps are surprisingly light on the carpet, and Hanamiya doesn’t hear him approach so much as he feels it, that overwhelming presence again, this time muted by the dingy decor, but no less potent at close range. 

“But really, are you okay?” His voice is soft, serious, and Hanamiya forces a laugh. 

“I’m fucking fabulous, I don’t feel _at all_ like I got knocked out by someone with fists the size of watermelons.” 

“Do you get hit in the jaw with watermelons often enough to compare?” Kiyoshi sits on the arm of the couch, lifting Hanamiya’s feet. He tries to put them on his lap but Hanamiya pulls his knees up, closer to his chest. He sits up again, this time all the way, and hugs his knees. 

“Shut the fuck up.” He replies, a few seconds too late. 

“You should really ice your jaw.” Kiyoshi says, gesturing to the abandoned ice on the coffee table. 

“You should really fuck off.” 

Kiyoshi leans over, he really should not be able to reach, Hanamiya thinks, and grabs the ice bag, before settling down on the couch right beside Hanamiya’s feet. It’s half melted now and dripping with condensation, but Kiyoshi holds it against his jaw anyway. 

“There.” He says, as if he’s completed some mission. 

On closer inspection Hanamiya can see the bruising around Kiyoshi’s nose, he can see the burst blood vessel in his left eye, giving him a tired appearance, and even bruises on his knuckles where he holds the bag. 

“Is your nose broken?” Hanamiya asks, a way to break the silence more than anything else.

“Nope.” Kiyoshi smiles and Hanamiya has to look away. The grip on his chin is strong, though, and he has to settle for lowering his eyes to Kiyoshi’s chest. 

“Damn it.” He curses under his breath. 

“Did you want to break me?” 

Hanamiya can hear the layers to the question, and it’s obvious Kiyoshi means more than just his nose. His pride, maybe… his spirit. Either way the answer is yes. He doesn’t answer out loud, only pulls the ice bag out of Kiyoshi’s hand and sets it on the table. 

Kiyoshi’s arm is hovering near his face, unmoving from where it had been and Hanamiya leans into his palm for just a second before spreading his bent knees and wrapping his legs around Kiyoshi’s torso. 

When Hanamiya finally looks up into Kiyoshi’s eyes he doesn’t see confusion, or fear, just something akin to resignation, a look of oncoming inevitability. They were always meant to end up here, as cliche as it sounds, and Hanamiya closes his eyes and kisses him. 

It hurts. Hanamiya can feel it in his jaw when he moves his mouth, opening it against Kiyoshi’s, he can feel Kiyoshi flinch when their noses touch but he just presses harder. He climbs up until he’s all the way in Kiyoshi’s lap, bending his legs so they are underneath him, rather than around Kiyoshi’s back, and he holds tight to the sides of Kiyoshi’s neck. 

He pulls back, not far enough to see the look on Kiyoshi’s face, only so that their lips are no longer touching. 

“Yes.” Hanamiya says. 

“Yes, what?” It’s only a ghost of a breath, nothing of the fullness of Kiyoshi’s voice, he almost sounds timid. 

“Yes, I want to break you.” He pushes him until his back is flat against the couch and Hanamiya’s hands are splayed on his chest. 

 

Hanamiya’s arms ache from holding himself up but he rolls his hips down again before pressing a kiss to the center of Kiyoshi’s chest. Their shirts have been discarded, lost somewhere on the coffee table, or behind the couch, and their pants were unbuttoned but Hanamiya was aching for more. 

Kiyoshi’s hands are on his hips, one thumb pressing indelicately against the bruise he left earlier stroking the purpling skin. Hanamiya can see his own bruises as they spread across Kiyoshi’s bare chest. The largest, on the rib that he was almost certain he’d cracked, covering almost half his side, the smallest hardly more than knuckle marks above his right nipple. 

He moves again, thrusting his hips until their groins rubbed together. He can feel the hardness between Kiyoshi’s legs, despite the layers of denim and cotton. His own erection feels painfully neglected but he isn’t going to be the first to cross that line and touch himself. He leans down and kisses the side of Kiyoshi’s neck, pulling at the skin between his teeth and sucking it red. 

“Ha--hana,” Kiyoshi chokes and Hanamiya leans up just enough to see his face. It’s the first time they’ve spoken in a few minutes and it breaks the silence like an air horn. 

Hanamiya only looks at him, offering the question with his eyes, rather than his mouth. 

“Can I touch you?” He sounds gentle in a way Hanamiya doesn’t want to hear, but he nods anyway, taking Kiyoshi’s hand from his hip and sliding it towards his crotch. 

Kiyoshi is eager, and with blatant permission he makes quick work of shoving Hanamiya’s pants and underwear down enough to pull out his cock with little delay. Hanamiya bites back a groan at the initial sensation, the roughness of his hands when he yanks him free, but whimpers when Kiyoshi’s hand moves away. 

When Hanamiya looks it’s easy to see what Kiyoshi is intending, and he lifts his own hips to better slide down Kiyoshi’s pants. He isn’t surprised to see Kiyoshi is bigger than him, he’s bigger everywhere else, after all, but he _is_ surprised when Kiyoshi wraps one hand around his back. He pulls Hanamiya down against his chest, and wraps the other hand around both their dicks together. 

The sensation isn’t a new one, but it’s been a while, and never have a man’s hands covered him so completely. It’s intoxicating, the slight friction against dry skin, nearing uncomfortable before Kiyoshi pulls up his hand and licks a long stripe across the palm. When they are back together it’s better. The wetness, slick saliva mixing with the ever increasing precome they leak together makes it easier and easier for Hanamiya to thrust into Kiyoshi’s tight fist. 

He can hear their breathing now, and it's almost like the final seconds of the fight again, they move in tandem, dance-like coordination informing their movements but instead of the punch, instead of the pain that sent his consciousness reeling, Hanamiya finds himself climaxing, twitching and coming into Kiyoshi’s hand as his hips buck forward and their foreheads rest together. 

Kiyoshi follows him, still moving his hand and Hanamiya’s muscles clench reflexively with every movement of tantalizing overstimulation. It doesn’t take long, only a few more strokes before Kiyoshi groans, loud and long and buries his mouth against Hanamiya’s neck when he comes. 

They lay in silence, only hearing their own hearts pounding in their ears and their ragged breathing. Hanamiya feels sticky and disgusting where their stomachs still press together, and when Kiyoshi pulls his hand out from between them and examines it in the light he laughs. 

“What?” Hanamiya says, into his shoulder. He can feel Kiyoshi twist his arm for a better angle. 

“We’re disgusting.” He says and laughs again. 

It’s true, but Hanamiya has no plans in agreeing. He feels like he can use a nap, more than anything. It’s only a few seconds later when another knock sounds on the door and Furuhashi peeks his head inside. 

Hanamiya sits up, still straddling Kiyoshi with come smeared over his abdomen. 

“What?” He asks. 

Furuhashi flushes, cheeks and ears pink and he looks away. 

“What?” Hanamiya repeats, louder, and Kiyoshi arches his back, attempting to lean on his elbow to get an angle on the door. 

“Hara lost. Seto is driving him to the hospital.”

“What?!” Hanamiya yells and Kiyoshi laughs, loud and joyous until he can’t breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> also i hope yall noticed the slight hints of unrequited furuhana. It's there for a reason, just to make my friend monmon sad about her otp


End file.
